Envy & Jealousy Poems (868 Poems)


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    Town Eclogues: Tuesday; St. James’s Coffee-House (Mary Wortley Montagu Poems)

    SILLIANDER and PATCH.  THOU so many favours hast receiv’d,  Wondrous to tell, and hard to be believ’d,  Oh ! H—— D, to my lays attention lend,  Hear how two lovers boastingly contend ;  Like thee successful, such their bloomy youth,  Renown’d alike for gallantry and truth.   St. JAMES’s bell had toll’d some wretches in,  (As tatter’d riding-hoods alone could sin)  The happier sinners now their charms put out, And to their manteaus their complexions suit : The opera queens had finish’d half their faces, And city-dames allready taken places ; Fops of all kinds to see the Lion, run ; The beauties stay till the first act’s begun, And beaux step home to put fresh linen on. No well-dress’d youth in coffee-house remain’d, But pensive PATCH, who on the window lean’d ; And SILLIANDER, that alert and gay, First pick’d his teeth, and then began to say. SILLIANDER.  Why all these sighs ? ah ! why so pensive grown ? Some cause there is that thus you sit alone. Does hapless passion all this sorrow move ? Or dost thou envy where the ladies love ? PATCH.  If, whom they love, my envy must pursue, ‘Tis sure, at least, I never envy You. SILLIANDER.  No, I’m unhappy, You are in the right, ‘Tis You they favour, and ’tis Me they slight. Yet I could tell, but that I hate to boast, A club of ladies where ’tis Me they toast. PATCH.  Toasting does seldom any favour prove ; Like us, they never toast the thing they love. A certain Duke one night my health begun ; With chearful pledges round the room it run, Till the young SILVIA press’d to drink it too, Started, and vow’d she knew not what to do : What, drink a fellow’s health ! she dy’d with shame : Yet blush’d whenever she pronounc’d my name. SILLIANDER.  Ill fates pursue me, may I never find The dice propitious, or the ladies kind, If fair Miss FLIPPY’s fan I did not tear, And one from me she condescends to wear. PATCH.  Women are always ready to receive ; ‘Tis then a favour when the sex will give. A lady (but she is too great to name) Beauteous in person, spotless is her fame, With gentle strugglings let me force this ring ; Another day may give another thing. SILLIANDER.  I cou’d say something — see this billet-doux — And as for presents — look upon my shoe — These buckles were not forc’d, nor half a theft, But a young Countess fondly made the gift. PATCH.  My Countess is more nice, more artful too, Affects to fly that I may fierce pursue : This snuff-box which I begg’d, she still deny’d, And when I strove to snatch it, seem’d to hide ; She laugh’d and fled, and as I sought to seize, With affectation cramm’d it down her stays : Yet hop’d she did not place it there unseen, I press’d her breasts, and pull’d it from between. SILLIANDER.  Last night, as I stood ogling of her Grace, Drinking delicious poison from her face, The soft enchantress did that face decline, Nor ever rais’d her eyes to meet with mine ; With sudden art some secret did pretend, Lean’d cross two chairs to whisper to a friend, While the stiff whalebone with the motion rose, And thousand beauties to my sight expose. PATCH.  Early this morn — (but I was ask’d to come) I drank bohea in CÆLIA’s dressing-room : Warm from her bed, to me alone within, Her night-gown fasten’d with a single pin ; Her night-cloaths tumbled with resistless grace, And her bright hair play’d careless round her face ; Reaching the kettle, made her gown unpin, She wore no waistcoat, and her shift was thin. SILLIANDER.  See TITIANA driving to the park, Hark ! let us follow, ’tis not yet too dark ; In her all beauties of the spring are seen, Her cheeks are rosy, and her mantle green. PATCH.  See, TINTORETTA to the opera goes ! Haste, or the crowd will not permit our bows ; In her the glory of the heav’ns we view, Her eyes are star-like, and her mantle blue. SILLIANDER.  What colour does in CÆLIA’s stockings shine ? Reveal that secret, and the prize is thine. PATCH.  What are her garters ! tell me if you can ; I’ll freely own thee for the happier man.  Thus PATCH continued his heroic strain, While SILLIANDER but contends in vain. After a conquest so important gain’d, Unrival’d PATCH in ev’ry ruelle reign’d. (Mary Wortley Montagu)



    Elegy On The Abrogation Of The Birth-Night Ball, And The Consequent Final Subversion Of The Minuet (Joanna Baillie Poems)

    NOW cease the exulting strain!    And bid the warbling lyre complain.Heave the soft sigh, and drop the tuneful tear,And mingle notes far other than of mirth,E’en with the song that greets the new-born year,Or hails the day that gave a monarch … Continue reading



    Tasso Dying (Konstantin Nikolaevich Batiushkov Poems)

    What festival is ancient Rome preparing?  Where flow the crowds in noisy waves?Why these aromas, myrrh’s sweet smoke  And censers all around abrim with fragrant herbs?From Capitoline Hill to Tiber’s waves,  Above universal city’s streets,Why are the priceless rugs and purple stuffs  Spread among … Continue reading



    The Song Of Hiawatha XV: Hiawatha’s Lamentation (Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Poems)

    In those days the Evil Spirits,All the Manitos of mischief,Fearing Hiawatha’s wisdom,And his love for Chibiabos,Jealous of their faithful friendship,And their noble words and actions,Made at length a league against them,To molest them and destroy them.  Hiawatha, wise and wary,Often said … Continue reading



    The Ghosts Of The Trees (Isabella Valancy Crawford Poems)

    The silver fangs of the mighty axe, Bit to the blood of our giant boles;It smote our breasts and smote our backs, Thunder’d the front-cleared leaves–   As sped in fire, The whirl and flame of scarlet leaves   With strong desire Leaped to the air our captive … Continue reading



    At The Saturday Club (Oliver Wendell Holmes Poems)

    THIS is our place of meeting; oppositeThat towered and pillared building: look at it;King’s Chapel in the Second George’s day,Rebellion stole its regal name away,–Stone Chapel sounded better; but at lastThe poisoned name of our provincial pastHad lost its ancient … Continue reading



    To Ladies Of A Certain Age (John Trumbull Poems)

    Ye ancient Maids, who ne’er must proveThe early joys of youth and love,Whose names grim Fate (to whom ’twas given,When marriages were made in heaven)Survey’d with unrelenting scowl,And struck them from the muster-roll;Or set you by, in dismal sort,For wintry … Continue reading



    A Dead Year (Jean Ingelow Poems)

    I took a year out of my life and story– A dead year, and said, “I will hew thee a tomb! ‘All the kings of the nations lie in glory;’Cased in cedar, and shut in a sacred gloom;Swathed in linen, and precious … Continue reading



    Before Sunrise (Maurice Thompson Poems)

    Mid foliage green and gold,And bloom-sprays manifold,I feelThe fragrance of eternal freshness stealForth from the rising day,And far away,Like the murmuring of a stream,Or a lute-chord in a dream,On the horizon stirsThe rich and rapturous anthem of the Future’s choristers.How … Continue reading



    To an ingenious young Gentleman, on his dedicating a Poem to the Author. (Mather Byles Poems)

    To you, dear Youth, whom all the Muses own,And great Apollo speaks his darling Son,To you the Muse directs her grateful Lays,And brings the Tribute which you merit, Praise.What various Vertues in your Person join,Tho’ great yet humble, modest tho’ … Continue reading





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